


so much better than the radio

by owlinaminor



Series: courferre week 2k14 [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Courferre Week, F/F, Female Combeferre, Female Courfeyrac, Fluff, Serenade, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 10:25:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2064561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlinaminor/pseuds/owlinaminor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac has always serenaded everyone around her – her friends, her family, random people on the street – but when it comes to serenading Combeferre, she becomes something of an expert.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so much better than the radio

**Author's Note:**

> courferre week, day one! (well, technically, it's now day two in my time zone, but that's just semantics.) enjoy the ridiculous fluff. :)

Ever since Combeferre has known Courfeyrac, she’s been a singer.

* * *

Someone is singing on the playground.

Combeferre peeks her head around the corner of the playscape to see a tiny girl with curly, brown hair slowly making her way across the monkeybars.  With every swing from one bar to the next, she sings a little bit of a song.

“ _Every day when you’re walking down the street, everybody that you meet, has an original point of view ..._ ”

She eventually reaches the last bar, then drops down onto the ground and raises her fists high in the air for a victory dance, still singing.

Combeferre approaches her with no uncertainty.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hey,” the other girl replies, giving Combeferre a wide, toothy grin.

“Can I play with you?” Combeferre asks.

“Sure!”

And the girl takes her hand.

* * *

Courfeyrac’s voice is clear and sweet, like maple syrup tapped out of an old tree to liven up the freezing winter days.  Music teachers love her for her enthusiasm, other kids love her for her eagerness to help them out when they’re confused, but Combeferre?  Combeferre could listen to her sing for hours.

* * *

One morning during spring break of their senior year, ten overenthusiastic teenagers pile into Joly’s mother’s van.  The car is old, probably needs an oil change, and is only supposed to fit eight – but they have a show to see, and Broadway waits for no one.

Combeferre is the one to take the wheel during the five-hour drive to Manhattan, mostly because all of her friends have (for some reason) labelled her as “the responsible one.”  Or – the oldest one, the smartest one, and the one with the best driving skills, as Enjolras so convincingly put it.  She stays calm and composed for the first half hour or so, but highway driving in an unfamiliar car is no easy task, especially with nine people constantly shouting around you.

Courfeyrac, in the passenger’s seat, is the loudest of the lot – arguing with Bahorel about food options, reaching behind to high-five Jehan, yelling to Cosette in the back seat to pass up the cookies – until she turns to glance at a billboard on the left side of the highway and realizes something is wrong.

“Combeferre?” she asks quietly.  “Are you okay?”

Combeferre grits her teeth and tightens her hands around the wheel, her knuckles white.  “I’m fine.”

Courfeyrac is silent for a moment – then she turns in her seat, cups her hands around her mouth, and shouts, “Hey, everyone!  Considering who we are and where we’re going, I think you all know what we need to do.”

And without further ado, she bursts into: “ _Is this the real life, or is this just fantasy?”_

It only takes a moment before the rest of the group is belting along, harmonizing and singing guitar solos to boot.  The car is no less loud, but – but this is so much better than unmitigated chaos, Combeferre can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief.  They spend the rest of the trip singing song after song, from classic rock to musicals to Disney.

(It’s so much better than the radio.)

* * *

That night, the car is less full of singing and more full of soft snoring.

Combeferre coasts easily down the highway, headlights illuminating the black road inch by inch and streetlamps casting a golden glow on the empty world around.  There’s something almost surreal about the night – as though she could blink and be traveling in a different universe to destinations unknown.

“Ferre?”

Combeferre turns from watching the road for a second to glance at Courfeyrac, once again taking shotgun.  She’s sprawled out across the seat with her head leaning back against the door and her bare feet on the dashboard.  Her hair’s a tangled mess around her head, she’s completely covered in a huge, black sweatshirt, and Combeferre wants to wrap her up in a fuzzy blanket and protect her from the world at large.

“I thought you were asleep,” she says.

“Nah.”  Courfeyrac yawns and stretches, like a cat waking up from a nap.  “I was just – just dozing, a little.  But I thought – well, would you like some company?”

Combeferre smiles out at the streetlamps.  “I’d love some.”

“Brilliant,” Courfeyrac says.  She straightens herself up, thinks for a moment, then begins to sing.

“ _Sailboats wish that they were stars ..._ ”

* * *

Courfeyrac is the last one to be dropped off.

Combeferre waits quietly in the driver’s seat as her friend gathers sweatshirt, purse, and multiple shopping bags and attempts to extricate herself from the car.  Courfeyrac is maybe a little tired and maybe a lot not so great at multiple-limb-coordination, though, so her method is something along the lines of ‘throw everything onto the ground, get out, and then pick it up later.’  Combeferre ends up getting out herself and helping ferry various belongings up Courfeyrac’s driveway to the front door.

At the door, they linger for a minute.  Courfeyrac gazes up at the stars, Combeferre solidly examines her shoes, and then – at once, as though choreographed, they look directly at each other.

“I just want to say – thank you,” Combeferre says.  She’s quiet, hesitant – the complete opposite of the Combeferre who knows the answers to every question before the teacher can even ask.

“For what?” Courfeyrac asks.

“For singing for me.  I really ... I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Courfeyrac steps in closer, tilting her head up so that she can see Combeferre’s face in the faint, silvery moonlight.  “Really?”

Combeferre nods.  “Really.”

“Good,” Courfeyrac whispers.

And she leans in – and she reaches up – and Combeferre meets her halfway.

* * *

Courfeyrac has always serenaded everyone around her – her friends, her family, random people on the street – but when it comes to serenading Combeferre, she becomes something of an expert.

* * *

A week after they move in together, junior year of college, Combeferre is sitting in the living room, her textbooks and notebooks spread out all over the floor so thick, the carpet is barely visible.

She’s attempting to piece together several haphazard piles of flashcards when she the door bursts open, hitting the adjacent wall with a slam.

Courfeyrac bounces (literally bounces) into the room.  Her head is bobbing, her hips are swaying, and any second now –

“ _Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy_ ...”

–  she’ll start singing.

Courfeyrac drops her bag on a nearby chair, lifts her feet, and kicks her shoes across the room, all in time with the pop song lyrics now echoing through the apartment.  And then, as if that isn’t enough, she starts dancing around like a teenager at her first school dance – lots of jumping and aggressive pointing.

“Are you going to be done any time soon?” Combeferre asks after a good thirty seconds or so.

Courfeyrac just grins and keeps singing.

Her volume increases, as does the range of her dancing – dangerously close to disturbing Combeferre’s carefully organized papers.  Combeferre does some quick calculations in her head and realizes what must be done to stop this menace before it can get any further.

The solution is simple, really: she stands, advances, grabs Courfeyrac by the shoulders, and kisses her senseless.

* * *

Combeferre takes a lot of early classes.

Early classes means getting up at abnormal college student time, and getting up at abnormal college student time means breakfast is a very singular affair.  Even after they move into an apartment close to campus, Courfeyrac likes to eat at the dining hall, but Combeferre gets her own breakfast every morning and eats in her own kitchen, usually with some coursework or the newest research open on her laptop.

This particular morning, she’s fixing herself some coffee when she feels warm arms wrap around her waist.

Combeferre freezes.  (Well – not literally freezes.  She stands in place, but she is so very warm.)

Courfeyrac’s lips find her girlfriend’s ear, and still half-asleep, she mumbles: _“I should ink my skin with your name, and take my passport out again_.”

Before she can continue, Combeferre turns and presses her head in the crook of Courfeyrac’s shoulder, nuzzles up into Courfeyrac’s neck and presses kisses along her jaw.

“Good morning, love,” Combeferre whispers.

Courfeyrac closes her eyes, and her smile is so bright, it could give the sun a run for its money.

* * *

One morning in June, Combeferre is reading the last bit of an article when she hears a voice from the shower: “ _Oh yeah, I’ll tell you something, I think you’ll understand.  When I, say that something, I wanna hold your hand._ ”

After Courfeyrac finishes showering and gets dressed, Combeferre grabs her hand, squeezes it tightly, and doesn’t let go for the rest of the day.

* * *

Combeferre is a medical student at a top-notch university.  She’s gotten amazing grades, worked her ass off in internships that other students would kill for, and aced interviews that would terrify the most prepared student.

And yet, this is the most nervous she’s ever been in her life.

Every Friday evening, Courfeyrac arrives home from work at five-thirty P.M.  Usually, they order take-out, watch TV together on the couch, then go meet their friends somewhere.  Today, the plan is a little bit different.

Combeferre has tried to set everything up perfectly: she bought enough flowers to cover every available flat surface (making the apartment a passable imitation of Nick Carraway’s cottage just before Daisy comes over for tea), turned the lights down low, and moved all small, trip-over-able objects to safe locations.  She’s memorized her lines, she’s practiced her melodies, and she’s got a very important blue box tucked safely into her sweater pocket.

What she didn’t plan for: her bladder.

Combeferre is sitting on the toilet, jeans around her ankles, praying to every deity and scientific genius she can think of that Courfeyrac will be _just a little bit late_ when –

“Honey, I’m hooo – what the –”

“I’m – Courf, can you –” Combeferre tries to shout, but she isn’t quite sure what to say.  After several failed attempts at vague distressed dinosaur noises, she manages, “Can you just stay where you are for the next few seconds?  Please?”

A second goes by.  Two.  Three.

It’s been ten seconds and Combeferre is pulling up her jeans, almost hopeful, when the bathroom door opens with a screech to reveal Courfeyrac, face very red and eyes very wide.

“Um, hi,” Combeferre says.  She gives her girlfriend a little wave.

“Hey,” Courfeyrac whispers in return.

“So, uh ...”  Combeferre steps out of the bathroom (she didn’t wash her hands, but seriously, she’ll be fine just this once, there are _more important matters_ at hand), puts her hands on Courfeyrac’s shoulders, and pulls her over so that the two of them are standing face to face.

“You’ve sang for me so many times,” she says, “that, well, today, I wanted to sing for you.”

Courfeyrac brings her right hand up to clasp Combeferre’s, where it’s still grasping her shoulder.  Combeferre takes a deep breath, stares directly into Courfeyrac’s eyes, and begins.

“ _Well, you done done me and you bet I felt it ...”_

**Author's Note:**

> songs mentioned in this fic, in order: the arthur theme song, bohemian rhapsody (queen), sailboats (sky sailing), call me maybe (carly rae jepsen), wake me up (ed sheeran), I wanna hold your hand (the beatles), I'm yours (jason mraz).
> 
> as always, feel free to come say hi (and/or send me a prompt or something) on [tumblr](http://liberteegalitehomosexualite.tumblr.com/)!


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